


No More Situations

by skeletondance



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Hamburg Era, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27783757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletondance/pseuds/skeletondance
Summary: Set during the Hamburg years.John gets jealous of a German guy who likes Paul.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 35
Kudos: 179





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For [pellmellbells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pellmellbells)
> 
> Originally posted a long time ago over on LiveJournal. I made quite heavy edits to chapters 2 and 3.
> 
> As usual, apologies in advance for any inconsistencies in terms of chronology, geography, etc. I took some liberties with the description of the Top Ten Club and the Reeperbahn.

Eckhorn was roaring at them in German as they tried to come down off the stage. “ _Another! Keep playing!_ ”

“We’re done.” John made to push past the man. “ _Es ist aus_.”

Eckhorn grabbed John’s arm, put his face close to John's so they were nose-to-nose, saying in broken English, “I say - when you can go. Play! More!”

"Let’s just do one more," George said.

"What about you?" Paul looked at him. "You look like you’re about to keel over.”

“I’m fine.”

“He’s not well, this one, you know,” Paul said loudly, leaning around George, addressing Eckhorn who wouldn't let go of John at the bottom of the steps.

Eckhorn was the owner of the Top Ten Club, and he didn’t understand much English. Even if he'd understood, it wouldn’t have made a difference.

“ _Either you play or you don’t get paid,_ ” Eckhorn said in rapid German, pointing at Paul, then at John.

“What’s going on then?” Pete lingered behind the drums. His t-shirt was sticking to his chest with sweat - they were all in pretty much the same state.

“Fine.” John waggled his eyebrows at Eckhorn. “One more just for you, _mein Herr_.”

The dance floor had emptied, but the bar was still crowded, the tables full. The air was hazy with cigarette smoke, and the place was loud with the rumble of voices, shouts and drunken laughter.

The band returned to their instruments. John, Paul and George slung their guitar straps back over their heads and gathered around the raised drum platform, in front of the kick drum. Pete wiped the crease of sweat on the drum stool before sitting down.

It was going on 3am at the Top Ten Club. The Jaybirds had pissed off some time around midnight, leaving them to shoulder the early hours on their own.

“Wankers.” Pete pulled a cigarette out, tucked the packet back in the sleeve of his t-shirt, he cupped his hands in front of him fiddling with a matchbook. “I’m serious, that lot had better make this up to us.”

“What d'you wanna do then?” John rolled his shoulders and adjusted his guitar strap. Wiped his sweaty forehead with the heel of his hand.

“ _Long Tall Sally?_ ” George shot a questioning look Paul’s way.

Paul scoffed. “You’ll be dead before the end of _Long Tall Sally_.”

“I can manage.” But George was sweating worse than any of them, his face was chalk-white in the harsh stage lights.

“You look like shit,” John said.

“Too many prellies,” Paul said.

John cocked his head. “Or not enough.”

“Let's just do a slow one. Why not…” Paul trailed off, thinking.

“ _’Til There was you?_ ” John hazarded with mild derision. “That'll bring the place down. You know there was a stabbing down Herbert Strasser last night?”

“Shut it.” Paul blew out his cheeks. “What about an Everlys? I mean, it’s three in the morning. Let’s just do something.” He glanced back at the crowd at the sound of a bottle smashing. Someone hooted loudly. “If they hate it, at least Eckhorn’ll let us come off.”

“Fine.” Pete rapped his sticks restlessly against one leg.

John was looking at Paul. “Which one do you want to do?”

Paul didn’t hesitate. “ _Cathy’s Clown_.”

Pete grimaced. “Drum’s all rattle on that thing.”

Paul twisted his mouth. “Come on.”

"I kissed you," John said. "What is it?" He hummed the chorus a bit, found the words, " _Never had you on my mind..._ Til I Kissed you - that's it."

The rest of them dragged their feet a little, but John was set on it.

"No. That's it."

George coughed a rattling cough into his elbow, then shot a look over his shoulder at the crowd.

"Come on then," he said.

John turned to Paul, lapsing into an elastic approximation of something American. “Well by golly. Golly gee gosh.”

Paul was tired, but he tilted his head and mirrored back to him, in the accent,

“Well golly gee whiz.”

They plugged into the amps again. Pete rolled his sticks off the tom-toms, impatient. The other three took up their places, George off to the right, Paul and John up stage. Paul folded his hands at the join of his bass and waited to one side while John bent to adjust the mic. John straightened his guitar again before addressing the room.

“Well, you can't get rid of us.” He wiped his sweaty hair back. A man at the bar bellowed something in German. John’s brows lifted. He waved. “Thank you very much, sir! Much appreciated!”

Paul snorted. John shot him a pretend-stern, censuring look before continuing: “We’re slowing the tempo now, ladies and gentlemen. This will be our last number. Grab a friend. And pucker up, you miserable fuckers.”

He gripped his Rickenbacker and stirred into a steady strum. The band galvanised around the shimmying little rhythm. He and Paul leaned close, their heads bent together at the mic.

“ _Never felt like this until I kissed yah…_ ”

Their voices dovetailed in the close-harmony. The stage was a bubble, beyond its edge, the murk and gloom of the club could have been anywhere. Their fingers gripped shapes on the necks of their guitars. They sang it sweet, crooning.

Paul was straight-backed and intent, his head moving cordially in time with the rhythm. Even John was exacting and subdued, his mouth drawn, brow faintly furrowed. They were both strangely in the mood to make it good, as their voices together in the beguiling close-harmony sounded good, beyond pastiche, it sounded good.

The middle-eight mounted. Paul withdrew and the band dropped suddenly out. John was alone in the suspended quiet, his voice nasal and plaintive, the punching upward stroke on his guitar a stark accompaniment. Melancholy, strangely rousing.

“ _You don’t realise what you do to me…_ ”

Paul stepped in close again. Their voices twined together again. They rolled to the end, hitching higher and higher. Paul could hear himself getting a little ragged - the last song of the night, and the high part was high.

“ _I kissed yah. Oh yeah. I kissed yah. Uh-huh. I kissed yah._ ”

Applause greeted them at the end.

John and Paul coughed and flexed their fingers and nodded to the crowd. John let the atmosphere hang for a couple seconds longer, then disregarded it with a sour little smile, booming an unnecessarily loud _'Thank you!'_ into the mic.

They didn't hang around after that. They disentangled themselves from their instruments and started packing up. They were done for the night, Eckhorn be damned.

* * *

George and Pete slunk off upstairs. Paul, blinking with tiredness, headed for the bar where he could see John in the thick of a group of young people who looked like some of the crowd Stu used to run with.

Paul took a minute to flag down the barman, Bernhard. Paul leant across the bar to ask for a water. He waited, leaning forward on his folded arms on the bar top, leaning forward almost until his chest was pressed to the bartop. He flashed Bernhard a grin as the man returned with a glass bottle of water for him.

"Hey." John appeared at Paul's shoulder. He took him by the arm and turned him to face a young guy with blonde hair. “This is Lukas. I told you about his band, they play the Kaiserkeller? Fellah pissed on their amp?”

“Oh right, yeah.” Paul shook the lad's hand. “Shame about that.”

“These things happen,” Lukas said dryly. He had a narrow face and his abundance of hair was back-combed masterfully into a quiff. Almost everything he was wearing was leather.

“I was just saying to John.” Lukas tilted his beer in John's direction. “We're having a little party at my apartment. You should come.”

"What - now?"

Lukas spread his arms. "Of course."

Paul glanced at John, who was leaning back against the bar. "Thanks. But I’m dead on my feet -”

“Have you met Matt, Paul?” John interrupted.

“No, John, I can’t say I have.” Paul imitated his wooden tone.

“Well, he wants to meet you.” John and Lukas exchanged wolfish grins. Lukas turned and called something in German over the noise of the crowd, waving to someone.

It was then that Paul really looked at the group properly. They were mostly young men, though there were a couple of girls. Judging from their hairstyles, they were a bunch of art students.

It was with a dull sense of shock that Paul realised a couple of the lads behind John were feeling each other up against the bar.

John followed Paul's gaze, looking over his shoulder.

Paul looked away. He swallowed a mouthful of water, staring straight ahead at the shelves of booze behind the bar.

“Interesting crowd, this lot,” John said.

"Yeah?" Paul looked at him. His eyes moved involuntarily past John again and it really looked like the one lad was touching the other one up, even if he was trying to be covert about it.

Paul looked at John again, didn't know where to look.

John drew on his cigarette, his eyes narrowing, squinting at Paul.

Paul was waiting for him to say something about the queers, but he didn't say anything. He tapped his cigarette in the ashtray.

“Right then.” Paul laughed, forced a laugh. “Well. I’m going to bed.”

“Here we are.” Lukas had reappeared with a guy. “Matt. You know John already, of course. I promised to introduce you to all of the Beatles. Here is number two.”

“You played very well tonight." Matt's eyes were on Paul.

“Oh. Thank you." Paul's hand was slick from the perspiration off the glass bottle. He wiped his hand on the back of his jeans, then held it out. Matt shook it.  
  
"Too bad the others have pissed off to bed. I’m actually about to do the same. Nice to meet you anyway. Paul, by the way.”

“Matthäus.” The German youth smiled. "Matt."

Paul nodded.

"So, you are not coming with us?" said Matt. "It is perhaps, ah, rather late for a party.”

“Yeah.” Paul huffed a breath of laughter. “No, sorry. I’m knackered, just been tellin these two. Been up since–”

“He’s trying not to be rude,” John drawled. “We’ve caught him off-guard.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Paul returned, deadpan.

“You see, our Paulie’s a choir boy, really,” John went on, addressing the Germans. “Got a bit of an aversion in fact, you might have noticed.”

Paul looked around the crowd like he was looking for someone. “What are you on about?”

“An aversion. You know.” John lent forward confidingly. “With some of your mates being the way they are.”

“Ah.” Lukas' expression said nothing. “I see.”

Matt said nothing.

“No,” Paul said, protesting.

“He’s a bit nervous,” John spoke over him. “He’d rather go and hide under his bed.”

“Oh, piss off,” Paul said, low, for John to hear, not the Germans. Then to Lukas and Matt: “We've been on since seven. It’s not that… Don’t listen to him, okay, he’s full of shit is John.”

“John?” One of the girls of the group had come over. She slid in between Lukas and Matt, fussing with her blonde bob of hair. “Are you coming with us, John?”

“But of course, my dear,” John said congenially, adopting his best BBC accent. “I can’t speak for everyone though.” His eyes fixed once more on Paul. The girl glanced at him furtively.

“Hello.” Her fingers passed over her hair, framing it carefully about her face. “I don't know your name.”

“Don’t worry about him, love,” John cut in. “It’s past his bedtime.”

“Piss off, John.”

“Eva, Paul,” Lukas said smoothly.

“Are you in John’s band?” Eva asked, swaying closer to him.

“I’m – well, yeah I –”

“Paul’s a bit simple,” John said. “We let him come up on stage and hold a guitar. Keeps him off the streets.”

“Are you coming to the party?” Eva asked Paul.

“We’re trying to seduce him,” Lukas said. “Help us out.”

“I think you should come, Paul,” the girl said.

“Well, I really -” Paul was starting to colour under the bombardment.

“But you should.” The girl touched his arm.

“Don’t pressure him, now,” John said. “He’s nervous around your kind.”

Eva blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Stop being a twat,” Paul said.

“You'll come with us?” Matt said.

Paul scratched his cheek self-consciously, purposefully ignoring John. “Yeah, alright then.”

There wasn’t time for him to get his jacket from upstairs. He stepped out with them, feeling inadequate in his jeans and white t-shirt.

Roaring into the street, the young Germans barked and shouted in loud, ringing voices. Eva and the other girls were calling to John in scattered English, fussing around him and Lukas.

Paul fell in awkwardly with Matt and some other guys. Goosebumps rose on his arms, the wind turning his sweaty t-shirt chill and damp clinging, he buried his hands as best he could in his jeans pockets, striding heavy-footed, his legs stiff from long hours of standing on stage.

Lukas had a van. An old thing with graffiti on one side. Everyone folded in, contorting, breathless with laughter. Paul squeezed in almost last of all, accepting the hand which Matt offered him.

The doors slammed closed.

“Fucking gas chamber!” Paul heard John's voice from further up the vehicle.

They were in darkness. There was giggling, muffled shouts, and limbs shifting and rearranging in the confined space. Paul leant against the wall, his spine bumping the metal.

“Tight fit,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Matt’s voice replied, startlingly close to Paul’s ear. “Hope this piece of shit doesn’t break down.”

As Paul’s eyes struggled to adjust, he saw as much as felt Matt reach out and steady himself against the wall, planting hands either side of him, one braced close to his torso, the other near to his head. The van started up and they lurched forward. Paul stiffened as Matt leant into him slightly with the motion of the van, their chests brushing.

"Sorry," Matt murmured.

Within five minutes of being on the road, Paul was in an agony of embarrassment. He’d shrunk as far back against the van’s metal frame as he could, but Matt had pressed closer with each rock and sway along the journey.

When they rounded a particularly tight corner, Matt touched him, his hand brushing lingeringly up his side. Paul remained rigid, holding himself so stiff that his muscles ached. His face burned in the claustrophobic dark. He thought maybe he should hit the guy. He had his fist clenched. He felt kind of shaky, wired, as he stood there, trying to amp himself up to clatter his fist into Matt's chin.

When the van came to a halt, Paul was the first to jump out, scrambling down like a man getting out of a burning house.

They had stopped alongside a tall, red-bricked building. Lampposts on the opposite side of the street illuminated a line of rope railings which ran the length of a wide wharf.

Everyone emptied out. They followed Lukas around the side of the building - an old docklands warehouse which had been converted to apartments. Paul hung around near the back of the group, hoping to avoid Matt. He was trying not to be too obvious as he cast around searchingly for John. He caught sight of him near the head of the group.

It stung, that John had gone out of his way to make him come and was now ignoring him.

It pissed him off.

Paul decided he wasn't going to look for John the rest of the night.

Inside, the party got going quickly. Someone stuck a record on. Cheap spirits got passed around.

Paul found himself sitting on a patchy leather sofa with three lads who were getting progressively more and more smashed. They’d made a token effort to speak a little English to him initially. Now Paul was the butt of more than a few jokes. They’d slap his back, splutter German at him, and roar at his uncomprehending expression.

After what felt like an hour of this, Paul gave up on the smiles he was forcing and applied himself to drinking with them instead.

It was shit. The party was shit.

Time rolled by. Paul sat slack and unmoving, stunned with the vodka and his own exhaustion, listening vacantly to the chatter around him. He blearily entertained the idea of just getting up and walking out.

“Do you know where John is?” he said, a little thickly, directing the question at the young man sitting next to him. "John? D'you know him?"

The youth gestured to himself and said loudly:

"My...name is...Bruno. Bruno."

“John's such a - he's -" Paul rubbed his face, trying to clear his head. "He's a dickhead.”

Bruno patted his knee heavy-handed.

Paul became aware then, with a sense of unease, that Matt had joined their group. He was sitting on the floor a short distance away.

Paul thought dimly about the way Matt had tried to feel him up.

They should fight. Paul should have hit him back then.

Had he really been feeling him up? Paul rolled his head back against the sofa and grinned at the absurdity of it.

Bruno shook Paul’s arm and gestured towards the door. It was time to go somewhere, time to do something.

Paul was crossing a cool lobby, following Bruno and the others, his shoes clattering on the stone floor. He made a point of holding the door for Matt, playing at the gentleman. It almost made him laugh - he almost wished John was there, he would have laughed.

Outside, the sun wasn't up yet, the overcast sky was lightening with dawn. The length of the docklands was now visible. Paul studied the cluster of warehouses and industrial buildings, the wharf that stretched on dull and severe, the peers trailing out to pontoons bobbing on the brown waters of the Elbe.

The sodden, sullen features of the harbour were familiar to him. The Landungsbrücken loomed in the distance, its towers knifing against the low sky.

“Everywhere's grim up North,” Paul muttered. He wasn't sure if what he felt was homesickness.

“You come from, ah, Liverpool, don't you?” Matt said.

“Yeah,” Paul said. “It’s about as cheerful as this.”

One of the lads produced a handful of pills from his jacket pocket. The others huddled in close and plucked from his palm like hens pecking up corn.

“Benzedrine? Benzos? It’s no problem,” Bruno said encouragingly when Paul showed signs of reticence. Paul thought the stuff could be no worse than what Bernhard had been giving them night after night at the Top Ten.

“How much have you drunk?” Matt asked him.

Bruno said something in German. The others laughed.

When Matt placed the pill in Paul's hand, Paul paused only long enough to draw saliva thick into his mouth, then tossed the Benzedrine back. The Germans cheered him.

“So you've been in this band with John for a long time?” Matt drew out a pack of cigarettes and offered them around.

“Oh yes,” Paul said. “Cheers.” He accepted a cigarette and felt Matt’s eyes on him as he put it to his lips.

“I’ve been to see you. Quite a few times.” Matt cupped a lit match in his hands while Paul lit up.

“Yeah?” Paul concentrated on the smoke entering his lungs.

“Yes. When you were playing at the Kaiserkeller. And now, at the Top Ten.” Matt stepped down off the pavement and into the empty street. He jerked his head inviting Paul to follow.

Paul hesitated for a moment. Something in Matt's thin smile, his dark, encouraging gaze, made him follow. The rest of the lads stayed where they were. Someone called something jeeringly after them.

The two of them crossed to the other side of the street and paced to the brink of the wharf where there was no railing and the water slapped against the stone a couple of feet below.

“How old are you?” Matt asked, abruptly, prompting a snort of laughter from Paul.

“Nineteen. You?”

“Twenty-one.”

They stood smoking in silence, flicking ash into the water.

Paul’s gaze wandered along the peer. He felt a sudden, wild urge to run, leap-frog the bollards, jump off the wharf and into the water.

He laughed.

“What?” Matt turned to him.

“No, no.” Paul cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

Matt smiled knowingly. “Benzos don’t do much for me.”

“The barman at the club, he’s always got stuff. Uppers. No hard stuff. Or so he tells us. Shifty bugger.” Paul's tone lifted with repressed amusement. He shook his head and tried to draw himself back under control. A reckless giddiness had bubbled up in his chest. He felt a little like vomiting. He dragged hard on his cigarette and shook his head again. “Stupid though. I’m never going to sleep now. I’ve not had a proper sleep in…fucking ages.”

“Paul?” Matt said.

Paul glanced at him sharply, anticipating the worst.

“What do you think of us?”

“Hey?” Paul looked back towards the building where the other youths were standing smoking. “Oh. Yeah. Nice lads. You lot are alright.”

“I think -” Matt swallowed, retiring suddenly. He paused, then threw away his cigarette in a gesture that seemed to commit him. When he spoke again, it was flat, oddly low and flat. “I'd like to know you better, Paul.”

“Oh.” Paul had come to the end of his own cigarette. He flicked it into the water and watched the filter floating, bobbing on the rippling water.

“You and John,” Matt said quietly.

Paul's jaw clenched tight. His stomach seemed to turn over.

“Are you…?”

Rough laughter forced its way out of Paul again. It wasn't real laughter. He felt a little delirious. “What?”

Matt watched him closely. “You know.”

“Hey? Are we what?” Paul was talking fast. “What are you on about?”

“What is your relationship?”

“He’s my mate.”

“You slept together?”

Paul bent his head for a moment as if listening for something, some obscured strain of music. He straightened slowly, meeting Matt’s gaze.

“Pardon?”

“I thought you might be a couple,” Matt said mildly. “I notice things. I don’t think I’m mistaken.”

“Are you having me on?” Paul scrubbed a hand across his face, flattening his hair back from his brow in a despairing gesture.

“I think you are very beautiful,” Matt said quietly.

Paul moved away from him.

"Paul." Matt caught his arm. "I'm sorry. Don't mind it."

Paul crammed his hands into his jeans pockets. He made another movement away, but Matt held onto his arm. Matt tugged his arm, smiling slightly, and Paul just stood there.

“I want to kiss you.” Matt stepped closer to him. He was looking at Paul's mouth. “Will you let me kiss you?”

“I’m not queer - "

"That's alright."

"John's - We've got birds back home, both of us,” Paul said unsteadily. "Girls, you know? We like girls." The ground seemed to be lifting and falling like they were out on the water. “Did he tell you...?” He was light-headed, not even able to properly sound angry. “He's just taking the piss. Whatever he told you. Look, I need to just, I need a minute -”

“Come back with me. Come to my flat. You can sleep at my flat.”

Paul swayed a step back and experienced a lurch as he found himself closer to the edge of the wharf than he’d realised.

He yanked his hands out of his pockets to catch his balance. Matt caught hold of him by his arms.

“Careful.” Matt drew him close. Paul staggered slightly against him.

“I don’t feel well,” Paul said thickly. “I think I'll go in.”

“You Englishmen can’t hold your drink.” Matt rubbed his hand over Paul’s back.

Paul shied from him, but his movements were half-started and clumsy. The strength had gone out of him. Matt's arms were around him. Their faces were close all of a sudden, and then Matt was leaning in trying to kiss him.

“Look, seriously -” Paul said roughly, turning his head away. “I don’t – I’m really not –”

Matt's lips brushed his cheek.

Paul shoved him.

“Get the fuck off me,” Paul said. “I’m not a fuckin queer.”

He got free of him, he almost fell, and Matt caught his wrist. Paul was dizzy for a moment. Matt helped him to straighten up. His hands held Paul by the hips and when Paul lifted his face, he kissed Paul's mouth.

Paul hit him. His fist hit Matt blunt on the jaw, clumsy and impeded because they'd been standing too close.

Matt jerked, surprised, then he grabbed the neck of Paul’s t-shirt, Paul twisted and struggled and the neck of his t-shirt stretched as Matt kept hold of him.

“Oi!” a voice called sharply. Paul knew it was John.

He turned his head to see.

Matt’s fist connected with his mouth.

Paul went stumbling back with the blow and fell, barking his arm on the paving as he tried to catch himself.

“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” John was there between them, rigid and immediate, shoving Matt roughly with one hand, putting his weight behind it.

Matt stumbled back. Bruno and the others were there now as well. But it was over. Matt stood, panting slightly, staring from Paul to John.

Paul scrambled up. The ground was lurching and unsteady under his feet.

John turned, his eyes dark and hooded. “You alright?”

Paul fingered his lip. The blow had been a dull shock, not especially painful. He didn’t acknowledge John. He straightened his t-shirt, raked a hand through his hair and took a couple of slow steps away. His stomach clenched and the ground was suddenly swinging close as he bent double and clutched his knees.

“Has he taken something?” John said. “What did you give him?”

“Benzedrine,” Matt said.

“That all?”

“Yes.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

John followed after Paul, standing beside him.

“It’s alright.” Paul swallowed. He gestured John away. “Just – give us a minute.”

John looked at Matt and said, quietly, “You’re a sly little fuck, you are.”

Matt didn't flinch. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you fucking do.” John started towards him.

Paul retched. He bent and vomited. He was heaving up liquid, all liquid. Vodka and beer. He thought it wouldn’t end. When it finally did, he could only crouch trembling there on the paving stone, breathing raggedly, recovering himself. He stared glassily down at the mess, spitting every so often to clear the taste from his mouth. After a moment, John took him by the elbow and helped him up. Paul swayed slightly, wiping his mouth and chin as best he could.

“You’re alright?” John murmured, looking him over. Paul was struck by the odd stiffness of his expression. It was as if he were embarrassed.

Paul sniffed and turned aside and spat again. He shot a sidelong look at Matt. The others were still standing around, watching. Matt met his eye boldly.

“Come on.” John nudged his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -When John says Herbert Strasser he means Herbertstraße  
> -Everly Brothers ['Til I Kissed You'](https://youtu.be/80l8HEZ5zFw)


	2. Chapter 2

Paul was woken by the sound of a guitar being tuned. The persistent chime and twang of strings as each note was stretched and drawn into shape was familiar and satisfying. He felt a sense of detached contentment as he listened, rubbing his forehead into the trough that his skull had made in the goose feather.

“You two getting up today, then?” George’s voice drifted in from the hallway.

John cleared his throat in a low, distracted way, muttered, “Strings are buggered.”

There was a pause, then the hollow thump of George’s shoes on the dry floorboards as he came in.

“Thought us lot were going into town today,” he said. A creak as he seated himself on John’s bed. “Let’s have a go.”

Shuffling and the bump of the guitar's body resettling. “It’s half three you know. Where did you two get off to?”

“Out debauching ourselves, weren't we, Paul?” John said loudly.

Paul kept his face turned into his pillow.

George was skipping up and down the guitar’s neck now, throwing snatches together in some loose approximation of Chet Atkins. He stopped to blow his nose, then a wooden clatter as the guitar was set down against the wall.

Wide awake and bored of pretending otherwise, Paul turned onto his back and rubbed a hand roughly across his face. His bruised lip ached a bit.

“Bit worse for wear?” George said.

Paul manoeuvred himself slowly upright and stared blearily about the cramped little room. The whitewashed walls were blazing with the sunlight pouring in through the room’s single window. He blinked dazedly and sat forward with an elbow settled on his knee, his hand propped under his chin.

“Been well out of it,” John said, getting to his feet and extracting a pack of cigarettes from the tangle of his jeans on the floor. He went to the window, standing tall and white in his briefs, the clean light picking out the dark hair about his body. He angled a match head and struck, stiff and precise, bending his head and fanning the flame across the cigarette end before shaking it out. He straightened and stared down his nose at Paul imperiously. Paul returned the look with studied blandness.

“Go on,” George prompted, settling a pillow behind his back. "Where did you go?"

Paul shrugged. “Just some shitty party.”

“Whose?”

“Dunno,” Paul said. “They were his mates.”

The pause that followed was laden. John smoked his cigarette. Paul gnawed a loose bit of skin on the side of his thumb.

“You look better,” he said at last to George.

“Told you it was just a cold.” George was studying Paul shrewdly. “What’ve you done to your face?”

Paul touched his lip.

“Someone give you a smack?”

“More than likely,” Paul said dryly.

“You should have seen him.” John turned and unlatched the window. A cool stir of air came into the room along with the dim noise of traffic. “Proper drunken shindy.”

“Oh yeah?" George smiled crookedly. "What happened, Paul?"

“Ah. Good question.” Paul tapped his chin with his finger, a pantomime of a musing look.

He got out of bed. Scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“You want to go into town, then?”

“Paul McCartney, master of evasion,” John drawled, leaning out of the window.

“Come on then, you lot.” Pete had appeared in the doorway, jacket in one hand, comb in the other. “We going or what?”

“Let me have a wash,” Paul said. Pete clicked his tongue.

“I'm meeting Carla at four.”

“Carla?" Paul pulled a face. "What happened to old what’s-her-name?"

Pete was carefully sculpting his hair, teasing one gelled curl to fall across his forehead. "Old news."

"You've more bloody birds than you know what to do with," Paul said.

“Ah, piss off.” Pete smirked. "I can think of a few things to do with them, ta very much." He headed off down the corridor.

"Here, wait for us." George got to his feet.

“Why're you complaining?” John said abruptly. He was facing Paul again, his eyes heavy-lidded and inscrutable. “The attention you’ve been getting lately...”

“What do you mean?” Paul said tonelessly. George hung between them, pausing out of interest.

“You.” John tilted his head, his heavy brows lifting. "Last night. Bit too popular for your own good.”

Blushing heat spread across Paul's cheeks. John's face remained smooth and ingenuous.

"I'll be off then," George muttered, raising a hand in a vague wave. His footfalls were loud along the corridor and down the wooden staircase.

John smiled thinly. He said quietly, “It’s not like how it is with a girl, is it? You want to be more careful.”

“Right,” Paul said flatly. “Thanks for that.”

John made a noise that was both a chuckle and a groan. He drew on his cigarette before reaching back to flick ash out the window. “How long will he be pissed off for, I wonder.”

“Who's pissed off?”

John huffed a breath of laughter, spilling smoke from his mouth.

Paul went and sat on the stool at the rough little dresser table. "I'm fine."

"Glad to hear it. Because I -” John pulled up short. “You're a big boy, right, Paul? I'm not your babysitter, I'm not your dad -"

“Fuck off,” Paul said. He hadn't meant for his irritation to come through so sharply, but it did. He shook his head.

"You want to grow up a bit," John said. "What happened last night. You, going getting smashed off your head, popping pills - "

“You know I only went along in the first place because you -”

"That's right, all my fault, always is."

“You threw me in with that lad,” Paul said quietly. “You knew how he was. You were throwing me in from the beginning because you and the rest of them thought it’d be a laugh. You wanted to show me up, and you did.”

“Yeah.” John slapped a hand over his heart. “We're all out to get you.”

"You knew."

"Knew what?" John prompted.

Paul stared at him, saying nothing.

"Alright.” John stubbed out his cigarette. He twisted the butt slowly, crushing it on the windowsill. "So I did know. Everyone knows. It's a joke. Matt pining over you. He comes by all the time. Sits at the bar with his little book, sketching, composing fuckin - fuckin sonnets. You don't even notice. Paul, he's got drawings of you in his book, I guarantee it - Christ," John was laughing. "It's funny. It is funny, come on. You never even noticed. That poor fucker." John's brows drew together in incredulity. "He wants to bugger you. As if you’d bend over for it. As if you'd let a man bugger you."

Paul found himself on his feet, moving automatically. He picked his jeans up off the end of his bed and yanked open a dresser draw, searching for a clean shirt and underwear.

“Sorry, did I embarrass you?” John said.

“No.” Paul shoved clothes aside, closed the drawer roughly and opened another one.

“It was meant to be a bit of fun.”

“What?” Paul kept his back to him.

"Fun." John enunciated deliberately. "Fun, it was meant to be funny, a terrific tickle for all."

“Right, well.” Paul straightened. “You’ve made him and me look like a right pair of idiots. So congratulations.” He started for the door.

John snorted. “You’re sure you’re not one of them afterall?” He lifted his chin and fixed Paul with a measuring look. “You throw a strop like a queer.”

Paul paused in the doorway. He turned his head. John’s eyes were lowered as he removed another cigarette from his pack. He tapped the cigarette on the face of the pack, kept tapping, kept staring down at his hands, like he was expecting something to happen.

Paul left without a word.

* * *

“What’s it going to be, then?” Pete said.

The three guitarists stood facing him, shoulder-to-shoulder, faces shining with sweat, clothing hanging damp on their skin. On the weekends, the stage could become unbearable, under the heat of the lights, with so many bodies crammed into the club.

“Saturday, isn’t it?” John said roughly, almost bellowing to be heard over the noise of voices from the dance floor. The others stared back at him mutely, their faces betraying the same flushed mixture of exhilaration and exhaustion. “It’s Saturday,” John repeated. “So, we know the set.”

Paul wiped the sweat above his lip. “We’ve not been playin the set though, have we?”

John squinted and did as George and Pete did, ducking in closer to hear him.

“We left off the set four songs back,” Paul said, louder. “We haven’t done any Elvis. _Blue Suede Shoes_ , _I’ve got a Woman_ \- that’s Saturday's.”

John adjusted his guitar strap. “The night is young.”

“I can feel myself gettin older,” George said. “So it’s Elvis, then?”

“No.” John hitched up his arm to rest on the curve of his guitar’s body.

“So what then?” Pete said.

“I Saw Her Standing There,” John said.

Paul shook his head, turned away for a moment to assess the crowd. “Can we not do something else?”

“You’re up for it?” John’s eyes slid from George to Pete.

“We’re off after this,” Pete pointed out. “Jaybirds can do the rest of the fuckin night on their own, far as I’m concerned.” He took up a stick in each hand and bent over the drums in readiness.

That seemed to decide it.

Paul felt John looking at him, but he turned and twitched aside the cord trailing between his base and the amp so that he wouldn’t get his foot caught on his way to the mic.

His right hand felt like a stiff old glove, curled in on itself. He stretched out his fingers and felt a dull ache in his knuckles, a familiar grate of bone and muscle. He rubbed his hand over his arm, where he'd grazed it when he fell down.

The crowd was packed in close to the edge of the stage; a rumbling mass. Paul caught an impression of white, unturned faces, of glowing dresses, bodies wavering, pressing and parting. He wiped his sweaty face.

There were a few whoops and anticipatory shouts as he bent to adjust the mic stand. He straightened and the mic caught a couple of his unsettled breaths, booming them round the club.

The others were waiting over his shoulder. He twisted at the hips to look back at them, he counted them in.

The guitars wailed either side of him and the leaping smash of Pete’s stick off the high-hat kicked them into it, carrying them all along at a frenetic pace. Paul slammed the thick strings of his bass with the numb pad of his thumb.

“ _-you know what I mean._ ” His voice rasped. “ _And the way she looked was way beyond -_ ”

He was already shifting tidily to one side of the mic, knowing John would be there. John arrived, solid and unflappable, shoulders squared, heavy brows lowered. He bobbed, bowlegged, with each downstroke of his guitar, his feet planted wide and firm.

“ _How could I dance with another, oh,_ ” John’s voice belted raw and low in Paul’s ear. “ _When I saw her standing there?_ ”

Alone again, Paul pounded through the second verse. He felt a fierce rush of excitement. The whole world was watching him. John was watching him. A thrill in his chest, seized like a hot fist clenched there. Sweat was pouring off him like he had a fever. His voice came so smooth now, hot honey out of his throat. He nodded his head jauntily, grinning down at the chaos on the dance floor.

“ _\- before too long, I’d fall in love with her._ ”

John stepped in. Their voices rolled together and they breathed hot into each other’s faces, stamped their feet as if to break the floor under them. Their arms were braced stiff around their guitars, they pressed together, elbow to shoulder, their knuckles striking occasionally.

They shrieked and yelped into the mic, leapt reeling back, and George’s guitar rang out. Paul pulled in sharp breaths, blood thumping.

He glanced aside to find John’s eyes fixed on him, glittering with a strange manic energy. Paul was sure he looked just as crazy.

They stepped in close.

“ _Well, my heart went boom -_ ”

Paul’s head was ringing as he beat out the final verse on his own, this time distracted, impatient for the richer body of the harmony. He fumbled the words slightly as he made space at the mic. He felt a stab of embarrassment, then it didn’t matter. In another second there was only a jolt of satisfaction at the press of John’s shoulder into his.

“ _Now, I’ll never dance with another - oh!_ ” Their voices melded roughly with exertion. “ _Since I saw her standin there._ ” They drew slightly apart, gazes brushing. “ _Well, since I saw her standin there._ ” Paul felt a sharp tightening in his stomach as they moved in for a final time. “ _Yeah, since I saw her standin there._ ”

They staggered back, the final notes twanging brutish and dirty from their guitars.

The response from the dance floor was sheer uproar. Paul couldn’t keep from grinning as he ducked his head. Some of his elation faded as he turned to find John watching him with a drawn, funny expression. They were both panting, staring at each other in the midst of the din. Paul raised his arms awkwardly as he lifted his base off over his head.

“What?” he shouted, settling the instrument on its stand. John seemed not to hear him and turned away, busying himself taking off his own guitar and switching off the amps.

Paul followed George and Pete to the end of the stage. A hand grabbed his arm, John was pulling him back a step, bending to speak into his ear, their cheeks touching. “Let’s go for a smoke.”

Paul squinted up at him. The stage light overhead was a white halo flare behind John's head, Paul couldn't make out his face.

They had a hard time getting through the crowd. Beyond the dance floor, there was a throng of people at the bar, you could barely wriggle your way through. The small seating area on the other side of the club was packed out as well.

John disappeared off to fetch his cigarettes. Paul got called over to one of the tables where he had his hand roundly shaken. One of the women kissed his cheek. He was gifted three bottles of beer. He downed one and had a short, broken conversation about where he was from, how long he'd been in Hamburg...

“Paul?”

He turned from the group. He faltered when he found that it was Matt standing behind him.

“Oh.” Paul looked beyond Matt, not sure what to do. The crowded bar didn't allow for much distance between them.

“Can I speak with you please?” Matt said. Someone nudged into him as they pushed past and Matt steadied himself. He had his coat in his hand, he held it awkwardly against his chest as he caught his balance, trying not to move closer to Paul.

The table of Germans had started singing, roaring with laughter.

Paul swallowed and tried to align his features into a more sober expression. He was still keyed up from the stage, and Matt’s sudden appearance recalled the events of the night before, events Paul was happier to forget about.

“I am sorry. I, ah,” Matt looked like he was aware he was out of place. “I do not mean to make trouble, I just - wanted to apologise - ”

“Uh, hang on,” Paul said. Music was being piped over the speakers, and combined with the noise of people talking and laughing, it was hard to focus. “Let’s - go outside." He repeated himself when he saw Matt couldn't hear him. "Outside?" He stretched his arm, pointing to the club entrance.

Matt nodded.

Paul realised he still held two full beer bottles, one in each hand, and he unceremoniously presented one to Matt. The German youth looked bemused, but he took the beer and leant closer saying thank you. His eyes fixed on something past Paul's shoulder, his features suddenly stiffening with unease.

John's hot chest bumped against Paul's shoulder as he pushed his way through the throng of people. He stopped beside Paul, looking down his nose at Matt with cool dislike.

"What are you doing back here?"

Matt just looked at him.

John stepped closer, saying more loudly, "Why are you back here?"

Paul got in between them.

"Alright - "

"Hey?" John was trying to lean around Paul, his eyes on Matt. Paul had his hand in John's chest.

"Alright," Paul said again. "We're going to talk outside."

Paul moved past Matt, motioning for him to follow.

“See you in a minute,” he said, throwing John a look over his shoulder.

“Oi, Paul -”

John's hand caught his arm, but Paul pulled free, and whatever John was going to say, Paul didn’t hear it. He was maneuvering his way through into the crowd, making for the entrance.

The relief of stepping through the front doors and out into the cold night air was delicious. The breeze gusted over his flushed skin, chilling the sweat like a dousing tide. There was a queue outside the club, and the pavement was busy with people dressed up and raucous for a night out. Blazing neon from the surrounding buildings bled in an otherworldly parade up the length of the strip, a sordid carnival against the black sky. Drunken shouts and laughter mingled with the muffled thump of music.

Paul turned in a slow circle on the pavement, realising that Matt wasn’t behind him. He was about to head back into the club when the German stepped out of the doors past the bouncer.

He held his coat folded over his arm, beer bottle clutched awkwardly in his hand. His eyes landed on Paul and he came over, the set of his mouth a little sour.

“Did John say something to you?” Paul said.

Matt looked aside, his face was washed in the red light from a sign overhead.

“It does not matter. I came here to talk to you. I need to say, I did not mean for things to go like that. How I acted…” He lifted his beer in a struggling gesture and glanced at Paul’s mouth, and Paul realised he was looking at the shadow of the bruise there.

“Oh, well.” Paul raised his own beer and drank. He wiped his mouth. “Forget it. We’d both had a few.”

“A few?”

“To drink.”

Matt smiled uncomfortably. “You had been drinking. I took advantage.”

That startled a laugh out of Paul.

“Alright. I’m not a girl.” He took another swig of beer and glanced past Matt’s shoulder, down the street. Music had started up again in the club - live music - and the baseline and drumbeat were thumping out. Paul nodded his head slightly in time with the rhythm, to cover his discomfort.

“I know you're not a girl.”

Paul could hear the smile in Matt's voice. Paul felt his appraising look, and suddenly Paul was conscious of his face all flushed and sweaty, his shirt stained with sweat, his hair slick with it.

“It wasn't right,” Matt said after a pause. “I wasn't going to be like that. I'm not usually like that.”

Paul just nodded, at a loss for any better response. He eyed a group of men passing on the pavement opposite. He shifted his weight restlessly between his feet. It felt like if they weren't careful, people would be able to tell what him and Matt were talking about just from looking at them.

“I thought that you already knew how I felt about you,” Matt went on.

Paul winced.

“And I thought that maybe - ”

“It’s alright,” Paul broke in. “I know John’s probably been tellin you all sorts.”

Matt gave him a strange look.

“He thinks it’s funny.” Paul shook his head. “You know. He wanted to put one over on me.”

“I don't understand.”

“Well, because,” Paul began haltingly. “Because, like, back home, it’s - it’s. Being, you know.” He nodded awkwardly to Matt. “Well, it’s not done. And...doing that with another lad.” He dropped his voice low. He looked off past Matt’s shoulder again. “You'd never hear the end of it. You’d get your head kicked in.”

Matt was keeping silent, listening closely.

“He wanted to make me look like a berk. He thought it would be funny. So he made you think I was - ” Paul moved restlessly on the pavement. “Just, whatever John told you about me, it’s bollocks. He did it for a wind up. Where we're from, you don’t - you don’t go with a lad. He did it for a laugh, you know?”

“You think he set us up as a joke,” Matt said slowly.

“Yeah. He’s a, you know, he’s a twat like that sometimes. He does things for a laugh. I’m sorry you got the wrong -”

Matt interrupted, “But that's not true. He wasn't trying to make you look stupid.”

Paul cocked his head, lifting his eyebrows as he huffed a tired laugh. “Ah, no, that's John. I know him.”

“I think he wanted to see what you would do.”

Paul stared across the street at the blinking light display in the opposite building's window front.

“Paul. I think you should know…” Matt hesitated. “But maybe it's not right. I'm not the right person.”

Paul lifted his chin. “No, go on then.”

“So." Matt gestured back to the Top Ten. "Ask John why he did all this.”

“I told you - ”

“And ask him why he looks at you that way."

"What way?"

"The look like you think men only look at women. I think you already have noticed, but you pretend.”

Paul was rubbing the corner of his mouth with his finger. He rubbed his lower lip slowly as he stared dumbly at the blinking window display. The silhouettes of people passing in front of it.

He couldn't seem to think of anything, his mind was blank.

He laughed then.

"You don’t know what you’re on about."

"He watches you."

Paul moved away from Matt. Then he paced nearer again, and said in an undertone, "He's got a girl, alright?"

Paul glanced at the club entrance. He pictured how John would react if he knew they were out here talking about him like this.

“You must have felt it,” Matt said. “Before, when you were on stage. You must have felt his eyes on you.”

Matt studied Paul's face.

“Yes, you did.” There was a strange note of misery in Matt’s voice, even as his eyes moved over Paul’s face with something like hunger.

“It’s not like that,” Paul said stiffly. “John’s - he’s a mate, alright?”

“That makes him afraid of what will happen if you find out,” Matt said. “That is why he's testing.”

Paul wiped his forehead, his face, feeling the sweat there like a sickly clamminess now. He lifted his beer as if to drink, then lowered it again, dropping it into the gutter. The glass landed with a clatter in the road without breaking. He wished it had.

“It’s not like that,” Paul repeated.

“No? And I suppose you never wondered what it would be like to kiss John? To sleep with him?”

“Alright,” Paul said sharply. “That's enough.”

John’s face close to his at the mic, John’s breath hot against his mouth, John’s heavy-lidded, dark eyes, John’s pitiless smile -

Paul paced away from Matt again, looked around with his hands jammed in his pockets and his chin stuck out, like he was someone hard, like he was expecting one of the blokes walking by to round on him and try and start something.

When he was reassured that no one was close enough to hear, he paced closer to Matt again. He was angry that Matt had talked like that, that he hadn't even troubled to lower his voice. In Liverpool, you'd get your head kicked in for talking like that.

“For Christ's sake.” Paul pushed his damp hair back from his forehead. “You can’t leave alone, can you?”

“He could have you.” Matt just gazed at Paul like he didn't care who saw, or heard. “He's a fucking idiot.”

Paul paced again. His face was burning.

"You're off your head," he muttered, walking past Matt. “I’m gonna go back in.”

“Alright.” Matt turned with him, but he didn't follow. He just said, flat and weary, “I am sorry about last night. Really.”

Paul halted. Turned.

“Yeah. Alright. No hard feelings,” he said, making his voice casual, indifferent, like they'd been talking about nothing at all. He stuck his hand out, because that seemed proper, like the sort of thing his dad would have wanted him to do.

They shook hands.

"Goodbye then," Matt said.

Paul nodded and moved off briskly. He pressed through the cluster of people at the door of the club, the bouncer waved him back inside.

* * *

He went for a piss and caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror on the way out. His eyes stared glassily back at him. His eyes were large. Something like shock lingered in his face.

He pressed through the milling bodies towards the bar, conscious of himself, as if his face were giving him away.

The Jaybirds were onstage, moaning breathlessly through a rough rendition of _Maybe Baby_. Paul reached the bar and picked out John sitting at the far end with a drink in front of him. He looked untouchable, he looked cool and dangerous. He turned his head now and then, checking the club entrance.

Paul realised maybe John was looking out for him, hadn't seen him slip back inside.

Paul ordered a drink. His accent stood out from the rumble of German voices. John looked round.

Paul slid onto the stool beside him.

“Oh dear.” He nodded in the direction of the stage. “What are they doing to Buddy?” He picked up a matchbook that was lying by John's elbow and turned it in his fingers. “Give us a ciggy, then.”

John nudged his pack over to him and lifted his glass to his lips while Paul lit up.

“D’you have a nice chat, then?” John said, staring ahead.

Paul shook out his match.

“Came to make up, did he?” John said. He put on a voice, “ _My fist just slipped somehow and ended up in your face._ ”

“Yeah, actually, that’s just how it happened,” Paul said with mock-amazement. “That’s uncanny, that. It's like you were there.”

John dragged on his cigarette, his expression smoothing back into something dark.

“He wants another go then, does he?”

“Give it a rest,” Paul said flatly. He turned around on his stool so he was looking out at the club and could see the Jaybirds up on stage. His elbow rested on the bartop, his arm close to John's arm.

They sat smoking, neither of them saying anything for a bit.

“You’ll be giving him ideas,” John said.

Paul covered his flash of anger, pretended not to hear. He bent his head closer. John tilted his shoulders, bent close, and said right near Paul's ear, obnoxiously,

“ _You’ll be giving him ideas._ ”

Paul drew his head away from him and breathed out a long stream of smoke.

“Maybe I should have left you two alone yesterday.” John turned more towards him.

“You did, didn't you?” Paul said sharply. He stretched and pulled an ashtray from along the bar, and ashed his cigarette. “Look, are you going to keep being a twat?”

“I don't know.”

Paul said nothing, looking ahead at the stage. After a moment, he got to his feet.

“Come on, Paul, take a joke.” John pushed his empty glass away. “Have a fuckin laugh.”

Paul left John. He shuffled through the crowd to the other end of the bar, and there he lifted the hatch on the counter so that he could get in behind the bar.

The bartender glanced up from the drinks that he was pouring. A bit of wrangling got Paul a bottle of whisky and a packet of prellies.

He made his way back to John - John had been watching him. John was sitting up straighter on his stool, reservation making his features blank and stern.

Paul smiled. His cigarette was still dangling from his lips. He held up the whiskey.

"What do you plan to do with that, then?" John said. But he stood up and followed as Paul led the way to the backroom, to the stairs up to the second floor.

* * *

The music from the club came up through the floorboards _thump-thump-thump_.

Paul sat on his bed, made a halfhearted go at straightening the eiderdown, then leaned over and picked up the acoustic guitar resting against John’s bed.

“Have we only got this up here?” Turning, he found that John was still standing in the doorway, his hands in his back pockets. He lifted his head at Paul’s question and swept his eyes around the cramped little room. Paul thought John had never looked so haughty as he did right then, dark in the doorway, backlit from the light in the corridor, his long features hawkish, his look aloof.

There was the option to be nervous of him, intimidated - but in the past, Paul found he could master that squirming emotion by turning it into competitiveness. If it was a challenge from John, Paul would show him he could challenge John as well. It was like a hot gripping feeling in his chest, those moments, almost anxiety, but fire - it awoke a weird kind of hard proudness in Paul, an almost standoffish proudness.

A lot of the time, it was inadequate. If John was in the sort of mood where there was ridicule to go along with his aloofness, Paul never had much of a defense against it. You just had to laugh along with it as John cut you down with a joke.

Paul switched on the bedside lamp. He looked at John again and he couldn't tell what kind of mood John was in, paused in the doorway like that.

Paul settled the guitar on his thigh. It was John's one.

“Yours is in there,” John said. He went off to fetch the other guitar from Pete and George's room.

Paul took the opportunity to tear the cap off of the whisky. He swallowed a quick mouthful. His throat burned and he coughed into the back of his hand, his eyes watering. He drank again, then he set the bottle on the nightstand. It tasted disgusting.

John came back with the plain little Spanish guitar that Paul had restrung for a lefty. He handed it over to Paul and took the other guitar off him and sat down on the bed opposite.

“How much?” John nodded to the whiskey.

He meant how much had it cost, but to Paul, for a moment it seemed like John was asking him how much he'd already drunk.

Paul handed him the bottle. John swigged some.

Paul took the bag of prellies out of his pocket and tossed them onto the nightstand as well.

He started strumming, his fingers finding their way into _Cathy’s Clown_.

John set the whiskey down on the floor. He joined Paul in the punching guitar rhythm, and they sang the forlorn close-harmony.

They passed the whisky back and forth. John knocked it over with his boot at one point, but luckily the cap was screwed on.

Their strumming fell into a chaotic Spanish rhythm.

Then they were playing and shouting along to the song coming up through the floorboards, stomping their feet in time with the beat, the heels of their boots making a good din on the boards.

Paul's head was swimming nicely by then. He felt warm, loosened up.

He played slow.

“ _When I want you in my arms, when I want you and all your charms…_ ” Paul's voice wobbled with laughter. It was _All I Have To Do Is Dream_ , and he was laying it on thick, proper crooner, dipping his chin to his chest.

“Oh, Christ,” John groaned.

“ _Whenever I want you, all I have to do is dream._ ”

John pulled a seriers of grotesque faces at him, trying to put him off, but in the end he relented, abruptly, setting himself seriously to the task, matching his chord to Paul's, and meeting Paul in the harmony at the middle-eight, sliding richly into the low part. It was a song they sung a lot at practice.

“ _I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine, anytime, night or day…Only trouble is…gee whiz, I'm dreamin' my life away -_

“Enough! Fuckin hell.”

They dumped the guitars against the beds.

John got up and unlatched the window. He lit a cigarette and tossed his pack onto the windowsill. He leant there smoking.

Him at the window, and Paul sat on the bed - it was like it had been that morning. But the sky behind John's back was black, the room was shadowy with only the little bedside lamp for light.

“What is it, then?” John said.

Paul placed the whisky on the bedside table again and sat forward, grasping his knees.

“Hey?”

“What do you want to tell me?”

Paul was grinning a little. He reclined back on his elbow. “You what?”

“You’re foolin no one, son,” John said, in a pretend-stern voice, like a copper.

Paul laughed, letting his head droop onto his shoulder.

“Just tell me,” John persisted. “You got us up here, you got us drunk. Drunk enough you can say whatever you like.”

Paul's teeth and gums were tingling numb.

He drew in a deep breath, luxuriating in the feeling of air expanding his lungs, then he sighed, blowing out his cheeks.

“I don't,” he murmured, lifting his head. “I don’t really have anything to, uh…”

John stubbed out his cigarette. He came away from the window.

“Pull the other one.”

Paul looked drowsily up at him. “Pull it yourself.” He lay back. He folded his hands on his chest. Even as he smiled, he felt a trickle of unease, a sobering anxiety.

John picked up Paul's guitar and set it next to his, then he sat on Paul's bed, his hip squashed against Paul's thigh.

He leaned across Paul and picked at a loose bit of plaster on the wall, then still leaning across, he planted his hand on the narrow mattress, between Paul's hip and the wall, braced himself on that arm, his shoulders at an angle.

The music thumped below, the muffled pulse of the bass drum like a heartbeat, the club in full swing.

Paul leant up on his elbows.

“I don’t know,” he said. He was talking quieter, because John was close. “It was okay tonight, wasn’t it?”

“What was?” John said. “The set?”

“Yeah.” Paul looked at the guitars leaning against John's bed.

“What about it?”

“Dunno.”

“Christ. I’m about to throttle you in a minute.”

“It was funny when he showed up,” Paul said. “Matt.”

The atmosphere changed immediately.

“He said some things.”

“I bet he did,” John said. “There’s not much he wouldn’t say. You think I’m jokin about all that?”

“It wasn't like that - ”

“What do you think he’s after, eh? You want to give him somethin to wank about, is that it?” John’s voice had turned cold. He laughed. He changed how he was sitting, so he was part-turned away, his hands resting on his knees. “I do wonder about you sometimes.”

He reached over for his guitar, he wrapped his hand around the neck like he was going to pick it up, but he didn't, he took his hand away and left the guitar leaning against the bed.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Paul was sitting up now.

John made a laughing noise hiss through his teeth.

Paul felt like they were about to have a fight. He wished he hadn't drunk that much whiskey.

“With him, at Lukas’s,” John said. “We did it for a laugh, but because you can't take a fucking joke, you - ” He pushed to his feet. He moved over to the window. “You’re gonna have him thinkin he has a chance, stepping out with him like that. But then you need someone mooning over you, don’t you? You can’t stand - ”

“Fuck off.”

“Yeah, fuck off yourself.”

John picked up his pack of cigarettes.

Paul found he was on his feet.

His head was reeling. He hated being in this moment. He hated that John had twisted things when the mood between them had been good, and he also felt bewildered about how it had turned so bad so quickly.

John dropped the pack on the sill again.

“Just say what you want to say. You were going to say something this morning.”

“What are you on about?” Paul stared at him. “You just don’t have to go telling stories about me - ”

“What stories?” John said sharply, coming towards Paul. “What's he said, I told him stories?”

“I don’t even care, alright?” Paul said. “I don’t care about - about being queer, or whatever.”

“What's he said?” John said more loudly.

“You’re my best mate, I don't care if - if - ”

John had a truly dangerous look about him now. There was a pause, then he said,

“Are you calling me a queer?”

Paul realised that this was about to turn into a real fight.

They'd never hit each other before.

He realised with a feeling of things crashing down that he could be wrong about everything. All the shit Matt had said could have been wrong.

He was so stupid - getting drunk like this.

“No,” he said quietly. He swallowed thickly, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“No, say it.” John moved forward, Paul moved back.

John grabbed him by the front of his t-shirt.

“Go on, fuckin say it.”

Paul's back hit the wall. He'd bumped the nightstand that stood between the two beds, the lamp fell down along with the whiskey.

Paul grabbed John's arms and tried to shove him off but John didn't let go. Their faces were close.

_“And I suppose you never wondered what it would be like to kiss John?”_

Paul's eyes flickered down to John's parted lips.

He looked away in near-horror as he felt John go still.

Paul shoved him, and John let go of him this time. He only moved back a step, so Paul had to get past him in the narrow space between the beds. Their shoulders bumped as Paul pushed past.

John grabbed him above the elbow.

“Hold on.” There was a tremor in John’s voice, grown nasal with amusement. “You want to have a go, then?” He turned his body, they were stepping on each other's boots with how Paul was trying to move away.

John kept hold of him. Paul was close to hitting him - if John thought he could throw him around, and grab him like this, like he was a girl -

“Piss off.”

“You did it! You’re the one that –” John was laughing now, heavy breaths. His fingers assuming a biting grip on the soft flesh of Paul's underarm. John laid a hand on the back of Paul’s neck, drawing him straining closer. “Come on.” Laughter puffed hot against Paul’s mouth.

They staggered and John kept his balance. Paul's hands fisted in John's shirt, balling the fabric, damp with sweat, John’s chest hot underneath.

Paul's calves banging into the bedframe, he fell back, sideways on the narrow bed. John climbed on top of him, pushing him back as he tried to sit up.

John straddled him and made like he was hugging him, a mocking, hard-boned embrace, a playground fight as Paul tried to elbow him and shove him off.

John pushed him down. He grabbed Paul by the hair at the crown of his head, he held his head down with sudden savagery, and bent down over him.

John wasn’t laughing anymore. He pressed their mouths together in a hard crush, crushed the tight-closed lines of their mouths hard together.

They were breathing hard through their noses.

Paul felt the dull pain of where John’s mouth was pressed hard against his bruised lip.

He'd rather John had just hit him.

It was clear between them, this way. John was making a point, humiliating him. He could hold this over Paul forever.

John leaned away, breaking the kiss.

Paul immediately tried to swing at him. His arm connected with John's arm blocking the punch. He'd have hit John in the ear otherwise.

John pinned his wrist to the mattress.

“Alright,” John said unsteadily.

“Get the fuck off.” Paul couldn't keep how upset he was out of his voice.

“Alright,” John said again. He had to pin Paul's other hand as Paul fought him.

Then he had both Paul's wrists pinned either side of his head.

After a moment, he leant down again.

Paul turned his head away. John kissed his cheek. Paul was surprised, in a detatched way, by how upset he was.

John was good at embarrassing people. He knew the thing to say to joke and take you apart. But this was worse than anything.

John kissed his cheek again. 

Then he slowly put his face in Paul's neck. He kissed his neck and buried his face there and then he just stayed like that, curled over Paul.

“Sorry,” John said into his neck.

He'd let go of Paul's wrist and touched his jaw, the way you touch a girl to ask them to kiss you. He wasn't being rough now. He kissed the corner of Paul's mouth. He guided Paul's jaw and kissed Paul's mouth.

“Don't - ” Paul was confused, upset, as John kissed his mouth again, but he could feel in the kiss that John wasn't joking.

It made Paul soften his lips in confusion. He kissed John's lips.

John breathed out shakily. He pressed a kiss to Paul's mouth, he paused and drew back just slightly, then he bent and kissed Paul's lips again. He kept doing that, pausing, then pressing another slow kiss to Paul's mouth. It was making Paul flush hot all over.

John opened his mouth just slightly and slid the tip of his tongue against Paul's lower lip. Then he kissed Paul's lower lip slow and sucking. Their mouths came apart with a wet little smacking noise.

John did it again a couple more times until Paul opened his mouth, and then John's tongue eased into his mouth.

He stroked Paul's jaw like Paul was a girl.

Paul was trembling like a girl.

There was a loud thumping of footsteps coming up the stairs outside.

They broke apart like a gun had gone off.

John stood up and went across the room. Paul stood as well. He faced away from the door, wiping his hand quickly across his mouth.

There was a pause where they heard someone - Pete or George - cross the small corridor outside and go into the other bedroom, which was directly opposite. The footsteps scuffed on the floorboards briefly. Then the door to that room banged shut and Pete or George jogged lightly back down the stairs.

The flat, rumbling thump of music from downstairs filtered back into Paul’s ears, as if someone had thrown up the volume on a speaker. The bass drum was hammering, the tune was upbeat, fast-paced.

The sound of the doorhandle turning made Paul look round.

John had stuck his head out the door. He shut it again and wrestled with the old brass tower bolt for a moment, then he had the door locked.

"Anyone could have fuckin come in then." He wiped his hands on the seat of his jeans.  



	3. Chapter 3

John stood with his hands in his back pockets.

Paul didn't know what to do, where to look. The music from downstairs seemed to make the silence between them thicker.

Paul's lips felt conspicuous, over-sensitive. He wanted to wipe his mouth again. He wanted to hide his mouth behind his hand.

He found himself reaching his hand out, touching the headstock of the Spanish guitar. He stared down at his hand. He looked at his fingers touching one of the pegs.

"I didn't tell any stories about you," John said. "Whatever he's said."

"Alright," Paul said.

He kept his head bent, like he was more interested in the guitar. In his head, no clear thought would come. There was nothing - a ringing silence.

He heard John moving around, but John didn't come closer.

"It doesn't mean anything," John said. "It's just messing around."

Paul had his chin to his chest. He turned his head in John's direction without properly looking at him and gave a nod.

"S'pose we should head back down," Paul said. He tried to make his voice sound normal. It came out too light, too mannered.

John did move towards him then.

"We've been drinking and all. I haven't pulled a bird in weeks." John stopped close to him and scuffed his boot against the boards. "Neither have you."

Paul nodded.

"It's just messing around," John said again.

"Yeah."

"Well, why can't we?" John nudged carelessly past Paul and sat down on the bed. He stretched right the way along the bed and reached down to picked up the whiskey bottle. "Easier than goin out tonight on the pull and tryin to get a couple of girls back here."

Paul's eyes flew to him. The amber whiskey flashed glowing inside the bottle as it caught the light and with a sloshing noise of liquid against glass, John tipped the bottle back and drank.

He licked his lips and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and he held out the bottle to Paul.

Paul took it and drank as well.

They'd gotten drunk together so many times before.

Paul sat down. He rested the bottle on his knee. Then he drank again.

John pressed his thumb against Paul's arm - Paul realised after a second what it was - he was looking at where Paul had scraped his arm falling down.

Paul turned his arm automatically, looking down at the red bit of skinned flesh. It was nothing.

"I didn't think he'd try anything," John said. "He tried to kiss you, didn't he?"

"I don't know..." Paul said vaguely.

"You hit him."

"Well. Yeah."

Paul stared at the whiskey. John's hand reached over and took the bottle and put it on the table. John lay back. Paul lay back as well after a moment.

There was barely enough room on the narrow bed for two of them. John made room by tucking his arm behind his head.

Paul blew his breath out thickly. His face was flushed hot, a little numb.

_Sitting on the beds, face-to-face, guitars on their laps, John with a notepad wedged between his guitar and his thigh, they watch each the other’s faces distractedly as they feel out a melody._

Paul felt overly-conscious of his body, which was slow and heavy, like he could sink through the bed, the good feeling from the whiskey. His side was pressed along John's side, their heads sharing the mean little pillow.

Paul could feel John's arm near his head, and the heat coming off of John.

Paul closed his eyes, drowsy.

He felt John turn on his side. He felt him leaning over him. Paul half-opened his eyes.

John’s face above him was so familiar and so strange.

_Pulling the door open. Drizzle coming down, the light pink in the garden with the sunset, the air smelling of damp soil. John stands with his back to him, shoulders squared beneath his jacket. He’s brought his guitar, holds the head of the case loosely, the base of it resting on the toe of his boot. His hair is gelled, black and shining with it. He turns, brows raised, lips crooked in an ironic smile. Paul moves aside to let him in. John catches up the case by its handle, climbs the step, his dark eyes fixed on Paul, his smile softened, lingering. It’s new between them, shy pleasure at seeing each other. Paul’s got his jotter and an old Cadbury’s tin full of papers waiting on top of the piano in the sitting room. He’s only showing John the good stuff. He wants to show off a bit. Still, he’s nervous as he closes the door and turns. John’s a dark figure standing expectant beside him in the dim hallway._

Paul lifted his chin, blinking slow. He barely breathed as John looked down at him. He licked his lips.

He was burning under John’s gaze. He wanted John to kiss him again.

Getting off with a girl like this, drunk like this, felt good. But with John...

Paul's eyes fell closed as John leaned down and their lips touched.

John leaned back. Paul kept his eyes closed. He felt John's hot breath against his lips.

"We don't have to," John said. He bent and kissed him again, slowly. Paul returned the kiss clumsily, feeling embarrassed, feeling so stupid. Their mouths came apart with a soft smack. Paul just lay there with his eyes closed.

"We can forget it," John said. His lips plucked at Paul's again.

Paul let himself sink down, down into the drunk feeling. He kissed John. Their lips bumped together. Paul tilted his head to kiss him.

"Fuck," John huffed.

_Done practicing in the rooms next door. Pushing through the knot of people at the entrance to the dance hall, he finds it packed out. He searches the faces, searching for her, he thinks he sees her wheeling with a lad, laughing, her blonde hair jumps as she dances. He’s furious. He convinces himself of it as he starts forward. He’s got it all on the tip of his tongue, what he’ll say. He’ll go for the guy if he has to. He’ll drag her out the club. Fuck the gig._

_He’s lost sight of her._

_John’s got him by the shoulder. He’s close, laughing into Paul’s ear, slapping him on the cheek, jeering. Paul forces a smile. He lets it go. Follows John reluctantly back through the crowd. It’s cool out in the hallway. John’s in high spirits, jibing him. They go to the loos, smoke with the others. John combs his hair in the mirror, still taking the mickey, drawing the rest of them in. Paul leans against the sink and tries to laugh it off. He’s strangely furious, jittery under all of it. He looks at John’s smirking face in the mirror. He’s as good as John. He won’t be bested._

Paul had one leg off the bed. John had his thigh between Paul's thighs. John rocked his hips quickly as they kissed.

Their mouths came apart wet, John was panting.

Paul was hard, with how John had been rocking against him, his cock was stiff, crushed in his jeans, squeezed each time John rubbed down on him.

Paul turned his face aside, panting. His hand was fisted in John's t-shirt against his ribs.

John guided Paul's jaw, he brought their mouths back together. His tongue rolled in and out between Paul's blushing wet lips.

It was overwhelming.

Paul felt like he could come already. It was humiliating. He said something against John's mouth.

"What?" John panted.

Paul was too mortified to admit it to him.

Then John slid his hand down between them. He ran his hand over Paul's cock through his jeans, knowingly, and there was no hiding it from him.

Paul gripped John's arm above his elbow.

"Don't -" Paul gasped.

"No?" John took his hand away.

He rocked his hips again, slower.

This was how John would be with a girl - the thought came into Paul's head, and then he couldn't stop thinking it. This was how John would be, without clothes, with his prick buried inside her, squirming between her spread open thighs.

Paul was holding John by the hips then, feeling the rocking motion of his hips under his hands, feeling the stiff denim and John's hard prick grinding against him. Paul was shaking - he was going to come.

"I'm - I -" Paul rubbed his mouth against John's as John leaned down. He returned John's kiss shakily. He gasped against John's hot kissing mouth, his hands clutching at John's squirming hips. "You're gonna make me -"

John stilled and then just lay still, half on top of him.

Paul felt like an idiot, like a kid. John would probably laugh at him now.

"It's alright." John's hand wormed between them again. He cupped Paul's cock and squeezed gently. Paul's hand fumbled clumsily after him. He gripped John's wrist.

"John - "

John squeezed him again, and Paul made a rough noise in his throat.

"Fuck," John breathed. "It's alright."

Their noses were pressed side-by-side. John's hot breath puffed over Paul's cheek.

"Yeah. Come on."

Paul's mouth fell open, his orgasm trying to close over him. His hand was still gripping John's wrist down there and he was rubbing himself up against John's palm. It should have been humiliating. He was going to come like this, being touched over his clothes like this.

Then someone was turning the door handle, someone was pushing at the door so that it rattled against the lock with a terrible noise that made them lurch apart.

"John?" Thumping on the door. "Are you in there?"

It was Pete.

“What?” John called hoarsely. He'd sat back on his heels, throwing his hand out against the wall to catch himself.  
  
John looked aside, his chin in his shoulder, his face in profile tense and pointed.

"They want us back on."

Paul and John exchanged a look. The rigid set of John’s shoulders eased fractionally. “Fuck off,” he said, pausing long enough to swallow. His voice was less strained and his hand slid a little down the wall. “What about the Jays?”

“I don’t know. But Eckhorn’s about to pitch a fit.”

“Tell him he can fuck off.”

Pete’s grunt of frustration could be heard through the door. “Look, will you just finish up and come down?”

“If you give me a fuckin chance,” John barked.

Pete thought John had a girl up here.

Paul sat up straight, his head reeling from the alcohol. He moved his arm across his lap, hiding himself as best he could, even knowing Pete couldn't get in the room.

Pete muttered something, then his footfalls retreated from the door, receded thumping down the staircase.

The room was quiet. At some point the music downstairs had stopped.

John adjusted the bulge of his erection in his jeans. Paul watched John's hand do it. His eyes then flew up to John's face.

"It's alright." John climbed over Paul again. "Come here."

He kissed Paul's mouth all wet and hungry.

"It's alright," he said again, and his hand slid between them, stroking over Paul's cock again.

Paul's whole body twitched in reaction. The panic of that moment when he'd thought someone was coming in somehow had only sharpened everything. His heart was still pounding.

"Are you close?"

"Y-Yeah."

Paul's head dropped forward slightly, his eyes squeezing closed, his lips swollen, mouth falling open.

John squeezed his prick, watching his face, and Paul met his eye for a moment and then he had to look away as he started to come. His thighs and buttocks bunched tight, he tensed, his body tilted, his weight going onto his foot on the floor and his hand braced behind him, and pressing himself up into John's hand, trembling as John went on touching him.

John was saying something to him - Paul didn't know what.

Paul lay back, shaken.

It was intense - it shouldn't have been so intense. Maybe it was the whiskey.

His cock was still twitching, pulsing come in the confines of his jeans, and under John's hot hand rubbing him. He could feel the wet patch on his jeans.

"Christ," John said shakily. He lay clumsily over Paul and ground against his hip, he took Paul's hand and guided it to the front of his jeans.

In a daze, Paul cupped his hand to the stiff shape of him. He had no idea what he was doing, but he rubbed the stiff bulge, and John muttered low and appreciative.

John’s eyes fell closed, a frown pinching his brow.

He let his head drop slowly, squashing his nose against Paul’s cheek, his hair falling into Paul’s eyes. He rocked his hips into Paul's hand. His hand clutched Paul's hip in a spasming grip. He groaned and pressed his body into Paul's, crushing Paul's hand between them, his hips rutting roughly.

"Shit," John breathed when it was over. He rolled off. He fell on his back with a laugh. "Shit," he said again, to the ceiling.

Paul was conscious that he was drunk as he stood up and stumbled and knocked into the bedside table, catching himself against it.

John snorted a laugh. "You're not gonna forgive me for this now."

"What?"

John threw his arm over his eyes. "We'll get girls next time."

He said it flatly.

And just like that, there was an odd adversarial feeling hanging between them. Like nothing had really happened, like John was daring Paul to act like it had.

Paul started to laugh. It bubbled up helplessly.

John lifted his arm. He looked over at Paul like Paul was acting off - and that just made it all funnier.

Paul leant forward and pressed his hot forehead to the cold wall. He couldn't seem to stop laughing. He couldn't control it. It felt strange, unsettling, how funny everything was - he felt like he was outside himself somehow and the person laughing wasn't him.

He went over to the window. Finding it was open, he pushed it as wide as it would go and leant his head out. His body stayed stuck in the room with John, but his head was escaping and floating away with the night sky. He breathed in the air until he wasn't laughing.

"Gotta do a set like this," he said finally, to say something normal.

"You want to go down?" John said. "If you can get your head back on straight, that is. Give us those fags."

Paul pulled his head back in. He found the pack of cigarettes on the sill and tossed them to John. He looked away from John, worried he might start laughing again. He lent on the sill and crumpled his fingers against his mouth.

John shook his match out and sat puffing smoke.

The fingers of Paul's right hand twitched. He thumbed the calloused pads of his fingers out of habit.

He thought of the packed out club downstairs, the crowd, the dancefloor full, the faces upturned and expectant.

He thought of how it felt to climb those steps up to the stage, the familiar weight of his bass on his shoulders. The crackle and spit of the amp, the glare of the lights. The mic that stood waiting, the glare of the lights reflected off the metal in a dazzling flare.

John by his side. Dark, ready amusement lurking in his look, his crooked smile. An unwavering challenge in his eyes.

"Let's go down, then," Paul said.

"Let's see you walk in a straight line," John muttered. Then, "Yeah, alright."

Paul didn't think about how John had been, just then - careful with him, saying, _"It's alright."_

Paul went and unlocked the door. He stepped out into the hallway. He'd go and clean up, try and sober up. He left John in the bedroom, in his haze of smoke.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will probably add an epilogue chapter to this, as it felt unfinished. Anyone wanting to read the original version of this fic without my edits, you can find it [here](https://zzzsleeptalker.dreamwidth.org/2175.html). Bear in mind there are no major differences in terms of the story beats.


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